No Title
[ Home ]I love nights. Once I wrote this in my Chinese composition, admiring the serenity and solitude that night embraces, and that may be the first time I found the bizarre appealing of darkness to me. In contrast, once I hated daytime so much that when I did homework in the afternoon at weekends I couldn’t tolerate the sunlight and drew back the curtains violently, but my mother harshly insisted keeping it open so we had a quarrel. At last I put on my sunglasses and cursed of lights. From then on, an indefinable boundary of life appears gradually and invisibly, dividing every day into two separate parts. Well, of course all human beings are fully aware of the difference of day and night, but here I mean different. Take death as an analogy, while we all know people will die in future, most young teenagers don’t UNDERSTAND it actually. They have this concept, but that’s all; they just KNOW this as a fact like that one plus one equals two. They don’t have experiences or deep thinking, so that they live without noticing it until something bad happen. Therefore knowledge and understanding are definitely different, and this little coincidence led my knowledge of night into understanding.
Night time is always the best. I don’t need to listen to my parents’ clichés and I won’t do any schoolwork, though almost every other student in my class will stay up very late to study. So I think that night may just be like daytime for them. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad, but from time to time I feel pathetic and sympathetic for them. They are those I despise most that I call puppets, strings held in their parents’ hands and brains empty. But I admire their capacity of learning and tolerating, while I’m very weak in persisting on learning. However, I still decide I’m much more superior to them.
Now I’m sitting in my room comfortably, suddenly wanting to change this essay into a fiction, but the beginning seems not very arousing. Whatever—I yawn, clicking on the website randomly and enjoying the very instant time. Seize the day, they say. Past life seems a lie to me, slipping off and leaving nothing. I don’t trust my memory, so the past is fake to me.
I have this second only, and tick—it’s gone.
I always feel that there must be some magic in languages. With different features and usages they shape and restrict our thoughts. Right, thoughts are always controlled by the languages we use, while the novel 1984 can be a perfect example. I didn’t believe it at first, but when I began to use English to write out my thoughts, I feel exactly different. Maybe it’s just a sense of achievement of using foreign language, but I prefer considering it as a different thinking pattern. Again: languages shape and restrict our thoughts, and I find myself in a plight of Chinese.
Three days after the writing of above, I opened the document again and stared at it, feeling it’s just a big crap of bullshit. I know I’m changeable, but it’s quite beyond my own appraisement of myself. Now I can only name it as ”no title”, which I’ve been used frequently in my Chinese writings. So I can say that the title using is actually a reflection of my inner moves, unstable and self-repulsive, which lead to some calamitous incidents by which I’ve once been torn continually, and that’s not the end. Prophets can tell exactly that I’m going to shoulder the burden forever. I’m way too changeable.